What Child Is This?
by jerzeegurl
Summary: Gillian's parentage revealed. TW: allusions to domestic violence, child abuse and neglect, spousal rape.


Grace awoke to sharp cramping on her lower left side and glanced out the window. It was a feeling she knew all too well. The first rays of sunlight were peeping through the pines yet—_thankfully_— there was no sign of Ethan. She managed to get up and hobbled into the tiny bedroom next-door, where her boys were sleeping peacefully in the cot they shared. Sighing heavily, she crept across the room and tapped her eldest on the shoulder. She dreaded burdening him but he was the only one she could count on. His eyes wide, he rolled over to face her while she held an index finger over her mouth. He nodded in understanding and they carefully made their way into the kitchen.

"The baby's coming," she winced, lowering herself onto one of the chairs. The others had come quickly and she suspected this time would be no different.

"Yes Mother," he responded with concern as she struggled to catch her breath, a trembling hand gesturing towards the stove.

"The kettle…"

The child obediently filled it and placed it on one of the burners. Seeing his frailty and healing bruises— marks that matched her own and then some— she was consumed with guilt at bringing another one into this world, this poor excuse for a life. Hell on earth, that's what it was. There were seven years between her two children, although the difference would have been less if not for the miscarriages. Blessings, they were. "_Blessings indeed_," she thought retrospectively as she met his tender gaze.

"Fetch Mrs… Henderson," she managed.

And off he went, barefoot and still in his bedclothes no less.

After what seemed an eternity (but in reality was about half an hour), the boy returned with the midwife. By now the contractions were minutes apart, each one stronger than the last. With silent tears streaming down her hollow cheeks she handed him an apple.

"Take to the woods with your brother…Don't…return until…nightfall," she whispered breathlessly. "This is to be shared…understood?"

"Of course, Mother."

But they both knew he'd go without and give the fruit to the little one.

She recalled little of the next two hours, her mind wandering to distract from the pain.

Pain. It was all she knew, all she could remember from the time she was young. And hunger, of course, but she was Irish and certainly didn't bare that burden alone.

The second eldest of twelve, she'd never experienced a childhood herself. Her brow pooled with sweat, she recalled the stench of the tenements in West Philadelphia; tending to her brothers and sisters while her father worked doubles for the railroad and Mama toiled away at the hat factory, her hands raw by the end of each twelve hour shift. Land of opportunity—rubbish!

Their bleak situation improved slightly by the time she reached her teens. The railroad was building a line to the seashore, and the family went with it. While it didn't look a thing like Dingle, the sea was the sea, and—in that regard anyway—Absecon Island _almost_ smelled like home. Mama landed a position in service, but it still wasn't enough to feed all the mouths. So, shortly after her fifteenth birthday, she found herself in a white dress.

The night before, tied down by the invisible chains of guilt, she sat at the vanity while Mama brushed her auburn spindles and whispered the same broken promises told by her own mother not quite so long ago. How the bridegroom was a 'good man.' He had a 'good job' with the County; he'd 'take care of her.'

He took care of her, alright, three times the night of the wedding itself; holding her down, twisting and turning her to meet his every whim yet there was no pleasing him. Everything she did was wrong from her cooking to her housekeeping to the way she styled her hair. She found early on that it was best to submit, she'd clean herself up as best she could while he was passed out or working.

And then their son was born, and what the devil was wrong with him that he never stopped crying? Her fault as well, always her fault, except that Ethan despised the boy almost from the start. Therefore, being the weaker of the two, the child soon surpassed his mother as Daddy's favorite sparing partner.

"I can see the head. You're almost there," Martha Henderson coaxed.

She gently dabbed Grace with a cool rag; trying her best to ignore how the other woman's forehead had wrinkled before it's time. And when she couldn't, she lowered it- Grace's parched lips suckling gratefully. From the mouth to the collarbone; Martha forcing herself to look away from knot jutting out on the right side- a malunion Grace shamefully kept hidden.

Just a few more pushes. She was exhausted, so exhausted, her pale blue eyes bloodshot yet determined. But she'd been through worse. Martha was reaching for her hand but she softly brushed her aside. "_T'will all be over soon," _she told herself.

But it would never be over. Not for her or any of her children. And in that moment Grace let out a carnal scream, quieted only several seconds later by the cries of her newborn. She knew what she had to do. Body shaking, she slumped against the bed while Martha took to cleaning the child.

"A daughter. Pretty one, too- already has some hair," the other woman cooed, smiling as she swaddled her. "Hungry aren't we?"

With that she brought the baby over to Grace to begin nursing, but the new mother shook her head.

"Grace…honey I know you're tired, but you've got to try."

"No," she peeped, her voice elevated several octaves. She drew a deep breath before continuing but the words still sounded like someone else. "She was stillborn."

"Grace-" Martha tried again.

"—She was stillborn," Grace repeated. She swallowed hard, her eyes pleading with Martha to understand the things she couldn't bring herself to say aloud. "Please," she begged, "It's the only way and you know it."

Martha did know. The whole town knew. Everyone knew, but nobody did anything. Her own eyes tearing up, she looked longingly from Grace to the baby and back again all the while thinking of her own husband's soft touch; her own home filled with children's laughter; her full stomach at the end of each day. She could feel her heart breaking when she thought of the boys, the older one in particular; his clothes tattered, never any lunch during recess (or breakfast for that matter she suspected). Cringing, she recalled the incident with the baseball glove. There was no help for him or his brother, but this little one still had a chance and she found herself sorrowfully nodding in agreement.

"A name?" she asked quietly.

"I can't…"

With that Martha turned to get her a glass of much needed water, the baby resting on her left arm and Grace could see the ginger on the top of her head- a family trait she'd almost forgotten.

"Gillian," she murmured deliriously. Sweetest, kindest, dearest little sister- she hadn't survived the crossing.

Martha would have to work quickly. There was no sign of the husband, but she couldn't chance it. She gave Grace some elixir so she could _try _to rest, and gathered up her bag. The child still needed to eat, but she had several goats at home and that would have to do for now. They were long gone by the time the boys returned from the forest.

"Mother?" the oldest inquired apologetically, shooting his sibling a stern look as her bolted from the kitchen and into their parents' room.

"Mommy, mommy, mommy!" the four-year-old hopped on the foot of the bed.

"There, there, Elijah. I'm here," Grace replied. Her head heavy, she couldn't lift it, but she did manage to turn it in the children's direction.

"Where's the baby?" the toddler smiled (a rarity and that household), proud that he was no longer the youngest.

"You're my baby, my darling," she whispered, her feeble arm stretching out for his tiny hand to hold.

"Oh Mother," the eldest said knowingly as he pet her hair.

She tried to be brave for them, forcing a smile.

"The hatbox in the corner."

Per her request, Martha filled it with an old shoe wrapped in newspaper.

"I bury this in the back with the rest," he assured her.

"Can I help?" the little one asked eagerly.

"No," his brother's grim reply.

"Why _not_?"

" T'is treasure," Grace interjected stopping their argument before it could go any further. "Before your father gets home," she urged.

"Of course," he nodded dutifully. "Is there anything else you need?"

"No. Thank you, Enoch."

A few minutes later she could hear the sound of shoveling and knew she could finally relax (to the extent that one could relax with such a husband). The cycle had been broken. As she drifted off to sleep, Grace thought about the wonderful life her daughter could have now. A life so different from her own; where there was always enough, where love was real and never-ending, and all her dreams came true.


End file.
